airborne
14-11-07, 08:57
Guys, the story I am about to share with you contains, vast panoramic scenes of sweeping deserts, the pitiless burning sun by day, the deep bitter cold star filled nights. It also contains details of the suspense filled military operation Desert Storm –Shock and a bit Nasty, men at war, fear, panic, and a scorpion down my trousers. Now some heartless souls may find this funny and laugh..? But this is a bloodcurdling saga, which only now under the 30 year official secrets act can be told.
1961 and Iraq was threatening to invade tiny, oil rich, Kuwait. As soldiers my comrades and I were whipped from Cyprus to the northern frontier of Kuwait for Queen. Country and a very worried Bank of England (the Sheik was sticking ¾ of a million pounds into a very nice term deposit every week and you don’t want to lose good customers do you ? ) it was HOT. Daily temperatures of 140 in the shade and up the sharp end on Muhtla Ridge– there was no shade.
During the heat of the day our platoon of 30 stalwart paratroopers lay in a wadi billabong under the shade not of a coolibah tree but a big piece of camouflage netting, stripped down to shorts and boots, as we lay there I thought it looked like a lost dogs home (tongues out and panting ) Our packs clothes and weapons lay behind us against the wadi banks but at dusk and at dawn we dropped into our nearby trenches fully geared up for action, this is known as stand to, because it was a well known fact that dawn and dusk were the best time for an enemy to attack. Somebody should have told them, as they never came.
We cheerfully whiled away the long hot, boring, fly infested hours with the usual whinging about the heat, the food, the heat, water and its lack, the heat, and the shortage of those two supplies vital to any soldier’s health and wellbeing, beer and women. Oh and did I mention the heat ?
One particular night “Stand to” came the call and in the darkness we began to dress.
As I dropped my shorts and pulled up my trousers something scuttled around in my left trouser leg and it was north of my knee… In the next nanosecond I realised it was too small for a snake “SCORPION “ The only thing that saved my sanity in that moment was the fact it was heading south!! I ripped off my trousers and flung them on the sand. Reacting with that instant full on battle discipline for which we were famous my mostly barefoot comrades began to beat the bejasus out of every square inch of the desert floor with boots, shovels, picks, bayonets, and rifle butts. Screaming like a bunch of big Jessies! Kill it Kill How no one lost a finger, toe, limb or other important appendage has always been something of a mystery to me; perhaps God does look after fools and little children.
The green, flat, and very dead scorpion was found, popped in to a mess tin and the two of us plus my towel, were hurled into the back of a land rover and borne across the desert to the Battalion Medical Centre. I kept waiting for the agony to kick in and wondered fearfully in which direction would the poison spread. The duty medic was an RAMC corporal who was seriously engaged with a mug of tea an old Playboy magazine and a relaxed fag by the light of an oil lamp. He gave us the usual caring Medical Corp greeting “Yeah, whaddya want“? I explained.
After a cursory look at my leg and the scorpion he asked how I felt. Actually I was fine. The scorpion was probably not able to whip its sting over due to the trouser leg. The medic sniffed, took a drag on his fag and gave us explicit medical instructions on how to go forth and multiply, and resumed his reading. Farewelling our medical adviser, the land rover driver, myself, my trousers the mess tin and the scorpion went back to our position.
Is there something to be learned from this tale- does it have a moral you ask ? YES, it is this, not everything you find down your trousers is your friend.
1961 and Iraq was threatening to invade tiny, oil rich, Kuwait. As soldiers my comrades and I were whipped from Cyprus to the northern frontier of Kuwait for Queen. Country and a very worried Bank of England (the Sheik was sticking ¾ of a million pounds into a very nice term deposit every week and you don’t want to lose good customers do you ? ) it was HOT. Daily temperatures of 140 in the shade and up the sharp end on Muhtla Ridge– there was no shade.
During the heat of the day our platoon of 30 stalwart paratroopers lay in a wadi billabong under the shade not of a coolibah tree but a big piece of camouflage netting, stripped down to shorts and boots, as we lay there I thought it looked like a lost dogs home (tongues out and panting ) Our packs clothes and weapons lay behind us against the wadi banks but at dusk and at dawn we dropped into our nearby trenches fully geared up for action, this is known as stand to, because it was a well known fact that dawn and dusk were the best time for an enemy to attack. Somebody should have told them, as they never came.
We cheerfully whiled away the long hot, boring, fly infested hours with the usual whinging about the heat, the food, the heat, water and its lack, the heat, and the shortage of those two supplies vital to any soldier’s health and wellbeing, beer and women. Oh and did I mention the heat ?
One particular night “Stand to” came the call and in the darkness we began to dress.
As I dropped my shorts and pulled up my trousers something scuttled around in my left trouser leg and it was north of my knee… In the next nanosecond I realised it was too small for a snake “SCORPION “ The only thing that saved my sanity in that moment was the fact it was heading south!! I ripped off my trousers and flung them on the sand. Reacting with that instant full on battle discipline for which we were famous my mostly barefoot comrades began to beat the bejasus out of every square inch of the desert floor with boots, shovels, picks, bayonets, and rifle butts. Screaming like a bunch of big Jessies! Kill it Kill How no one lost a finger, toe, limb or other important appendage has always been something of a mystery to me; perhaps God does look after fools and little children.
The green, flat, and very dead scorpion was found, popped in to a mess tin and the two of us plus my towel, were hurled into the back of a land rover and borne across the desert to the Battalion Medical Centre. I kept waiting for the agony to kick in and wondered fearfully in which direction would the poison spread. The duty medic was an RAMC corporal who was seriously engaged with a mug of tea an old Playboy magazine and a relaxed fag by the light of an oil lamp. He gave us the usual caring Medical Corp greeting “Yeah, whaddya want“? I explained.
After a cursory look at my leg and the scorpion he asked how I felt. Actually I was fine. The scorpion was probably not able to whip its sting over due to the trouser leg. The medic sniffed, took a drag on his fag and gave us explicit medical instructions on how to go forth and multiply, and resumed his reading. Farewelling our medical adviser, the land rover driver, myself, my trousers the mess tin and the scorpion went back to our position.
Is there something to be learned from this tale- does it have a moral you ask ? YES, it is this, not everything you find down your trousers is your friend.